


U + ME + THE DEVIL = 7

by Battleaxe666



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: 7 Deadly Sins, Help, Multi, Satan - Freeform, idk how to tag, idk what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 04:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12291591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Battleaxe666/pseuds/Battleaxe666
Summary: You never thought your ex would turn on you like this, but maybe it’s not that bad. You go to the local bar to drink your emotions as usual, but whilst there you’re captivated by a certain beauty...





	U + ME + THE DEVIL = 7

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah so this is my first Sharon/Reader one shot and it sucked when I put it on Wattpad and the Sharon content has been dry af on here so I reworked it! Enjoy!

She was odd looking. You know she was. Her lips- too big, too distinguished. Her chin too recognisably dimpled. Her eyes too doll like and dead. Her soul too black, her spirit too scarred. But she was broken, and you had all the right pieces to fix her. 

You'd always go out to gay bars in Pittsburgh whether it be with your friends or with Jan. You thought of her as the love of your life. Someone you'd never ever hate and she told you the same. She was undeniably in love with you and you with her.  
You'd just got back from a drive, a check up with an old friend and you'd sang Jan's praises. She really meant everything. You walked in, shouting that you were home and didn't even take off your damp jacket or snow covered boots before you entered the living room. The blistering cold air had really left a chill on you, despite your layers of clothing. She walked out of the kitchen and you knew something was up with her. "Jan? Babe what's wrong?" That flash in her eyes as her mood swung from calm to wrathful. Her eyes, pools of blue that you loved, deforming, morphing, turning into those of a demon as she spat out vile words that stabbed you like tiny daggers. "What's wrong?" She laughed, mocking you. Your brows furrowed as you tried to keep yourself from crushing everything in sight. "I never loved you." She thrusted every syllable from between her lips, tongue brushing her teeth on the way. You had the intuition to swerve and duck when she tried punching your head but when her iron fist up-cutted your stomach, you lost all hope. She was gone, the woman you loved was your newly made enemy and abuser. It had been brutal, your vision becoming more blurry as you lay defeated on the floor like a threadbare shirt. Between the haze she had begun shouting again. Mindless insults from another room. All you could do was drag yourself up, army crawl across the floor and get as far away as you could from her. Your arms stretched out across the matted grate like carpet as you dragged your dead weight towards the door. You had the nerve to successfully get away and leave with no cuts or bruises. You keeled over by a brick wall just around the corner from your house. Blood dripped from inbetween your lips.You were defeated. But you loved her, and you tried to foolishly convince yourself that her arguments were because you did something stupid, something you shouldn't have done and she just had a very short temper. "I have to forget." You told yourself, justifying that all would be okay, as long as you blocked her violence out of your mind. As long as you forgot it would sort itself out, right. You were almost too optimistic for someone who'd just escaped a violent attack. But you were young and dumb and restless in your search for your happy ever after. You didn't fancy going out to a gay bar and surrounding yourself with happy lovers and pickled livers. You didn't want to drown your sorrows to the Spice Girls or TLC. You wanted comfort and intimacy.

So you, as a newly found lone wolf, stood up straight, pushed off the wall and braved the cold Pennsylvania air. You walked and walked through the streets, forgetting about the blood, the pain in your stomach and your lucky escape. Past the local shops, the drunks, the sledging children and the frosty purity of snow. Ice almost looks like glazed tears. If only you could cry, if only you could feel anymore. But you can't. You're more than a little fucked up. In the distance you spot a pub. Next to it was a mattress, and a tiny bony boy, about 7 years old, sat alone in the cold. You felt sympathetic for this poor creature, but you weren't rich enough to give and spare change and not giving enough to think richly about the change needed in this world.

The pub looked to be a comfortable abode that's minimalistic and stereotypical, somewhere homely where you could drink until the pit of your stomach no longer feels agonizingly empty and dented. You're happy you found this pub, that strangely you'd never seen before, though you were certain that your friend took you past this street on the way home. It looks normal, and unnoticeable at least until you reach the front. The walls were bare bricks, old fashioned and pretty plain. Cracks emerged in most of the bricks, texture making the pub familiar and homely. The windows were glazed red, as if they were meant to be in some kind of satanic church. They were broken in strange patterns, almost like art. In them, you could almost make out figures, objects that could be interpreted as evil in subculture, but harmless in ours.

You walk to the door, as black as twilight and push it open. You feel a sense of fear and evil, stronger than the windows ever executed. Screams echo in the midst of your mind, but you're already hypnotised.  
There she sits, crouched over an empty glass, slumped onto the rotting elm bar. She rotated her head less than 20 degrees as the huge door creaked with haunting screams of pain. She was weird looking but you couldn't help to stare. Captivated by her caricature, exaggerated beauty, you stumbled to the stool next to her. Most of the other stools had broken, snapped in half, covered in cobwebs and macabre paraphernalia. She swigs the last dregs of whiskey in her glass. She doesn't notice that you're staring, extremely focused on her. She was odd looking. You know she was. Her lips- too big, too distinguished. Her chin too recognisably dimpled. Her hair, dark,  matted and unkept. Her eyes too doll like and dead. Her soul too black, her spirit too scarred. Her heart- shattered. Your heart- broken.  
A barmaid bustles over but you're fixated on this strange person. Where are you? You look up at the blonde girl and murmur "Two double whiskey's." You watch her leave to get the glasses, dissipating into the strangely crooked pantry.

The strange creature you were staring at leaned towards you and nudged you. "Thanks. I'm Sharon by the way." You thought of smiling. She returned back to her original position and for a short second you see a tear forming in her eye and dropping into the glass. The barmaid shortly returns with the drinks, and strangely, when you hold out a $10 bill she declines it, pushing it back towards you. Awkwardly, you look around the room and it's a lot bigger than you previously thought. A spotlight in your mind had focused on the incredible stature next to you but now the spot has widened.

Not the only thing that had widened was a man in the corner of your vision. He sat, elephantine, whalelike and gross, his arms wider than a pair of thick thighs. His eyes glistened, wide with hunger and gulosity. In front, atop his belly, sat a greasy excess of fried foods. As he shovels food into his voracious mouth, his huge gut jiggles and ripples, applauding his insatiable appetite.

Secondly, there was a couple, two older people, with tiny age lines that started to form and divide their faces in front of your eyes. They sat in the closest proxemics possible, bodies pressed together like two superglued fingers, the woman straddling and wrapping her legs around the man. They proceed to make out sloppily while your eyes linger on them. They look as if they're about to undress and fuck right there and then: they're both so driven, their eyes fiery with red and orange and yellow flames.

Next to them, in a booth of his own is a grey haired man, a cigar smoking in his mouth as his coal stained grubby hands busily shuffle a thick pile of twenty dollar bills. He leans back, hugging the excessive amount of money and taking a drag of the cigar. He's contempt, although he longs for more and more money. The thing that really angers you is that outside there's a homeless child, freezing and dying of starvation and then to juxtapose, this grey haired banker sitting in the warm glow of the furnace with enough money to pay for rent or even a night in a hotel for the boy.

The thud of large metal darts sticking into cheap cork disturbs your thoughts. There's a man; ivory skinned, tall, muddy short hair styled as if he spent hours on it, who looked about 20ish years old and a auburn haired woman who looks as to be his sister playing darts. The man wins, scoring 180, and cheers obnoxiously. "I'm a winner, and none of you will ever feel this thrill. You're all losers. I can challenge  anyone, and I will win. Especially you." He boasts, pointing to the woman, who's eyes have turned a similar colour to her hair. All you want to do is win, you want to have that, you want the pile of money, the positive sexual relationship, the food- all of it.

A flash of green. 

The woman is now wrestling the man, glass raining down from her hand. She made a feral noise, something that a deadly, predatorial snake would make. She was possessed by anger, thoughtless about hurting her brother. The barmaid idly sauntered to the beastly woman, and removed her, taking her to a seat and retrieving her a drink. The man stood up and shot a smug glance at his sister before sitting at the other side of the fire.

You turn back around, as the action is over for a moment and see 7 peanuts lined up in front of you.  
"Did you?" You ask Sharon.  
She shakes her head.  
Deep in thought you count the people in the room.  
A fat man. (1)  
A couple. (3)  
A banker. (4)  
A boasting 'winner'. (5)  
A wrestling angry woman. (6)  
You, and Sharon. (8)  
"There's 8 people, not including the bar maid so why is there only 7 peanuts?" You ask yourself.  
"Don't waste your time on figuring everything out, Pumpkin. We all sin a little." Sharon says.  
You recount, thinking of the couple as one. You remember that there are deadly sins. The fat man is obviously gluttony, the couple is lust, the banker is greed. The winner is pride, the loser is wrath or anger. That's only 5. You and Sharon are left.

You stare at her, trying to figure out how she knew, how she's inside of your head and under your skin. She knows things that you don't. She lights a cigarette. "Can I have one? I don't mind sharing." You ask, full of stress and anxiety.  
"Not until you figure it out, doll."  
You wish you had the cigarette in hand to relieve your addiction demon.

A flash of green.

And you work it out. You're envy. You're not meant to be a narrator, or an outsider, you're intradiegetic, a seventh of the action. And with this theory of you being a green-eyed monster, you unravel why: you envy the past version of you- before you became scarred and broken. You envy everyone in this room and your ex as they're all better off than you.

"I'm envy." You state. Sharon cooly passes you the lit cig.  
"Well done." She smiles.  
"And you, you're sloth."  
Sharon nods, moving closer. 

The heat of the fire shines a orange glow on your flesh. A magnetic force pulls you two together, bound by sin, tainted by a red horned viceroy. Your soft lips touch Sharon's rubber, swollen ones and you feel both pain and pleasure, black leather and lace. Your dark souls take the lead, and you don't realise that they're twisting, tangling like a pair of satin ribbons. The kiss breaks but your eyes are shut, grasping on to the final strands of whatever this was.  
"Welcome to Hell, Pum'kin."


End file.
